


The Walls Are Bleeding

by InsaneTrollLogic



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Human, Family, Gen, Ghosts, a couple murders too, hard earned happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:14:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneTrollLogic/pseuds/InsaneTrollLogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik befriends the ghost in his house. And then decides to expose his murderer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Walls Are Bleeding

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ 10/19/2011. (Still one of my favorites)

 

(1)

  
  
The house is perfect. Spacious, out of the way and dirt cheap. The real estate agent looks nervous through the entire tour, as if waiting for something to go wrong, but the house is pristine. Not to mention fully furnished. Erik's shown every room except the master suite, which is an oddity in itself. When the tour is over, he asks and the agent's face pinches before she offers, "You were probably wondering why the price is so low. Truth be told, it's because you will have a roommate. He shouldn't be a bother so long as you don't open his door."  
  
"You make it sound as if I'll be living by Pandora's box. I'm sure he's a reasonable man."  
  
She meets his eyes. "If you are still interested in this property despite its faults, Mr. Lehnsherr, I'm telling you,  _do not open that door._ "  
  
Erik raises an eyebrow, but signs the papers anyway. The house is more than large enough for two people and no property is perfect. Erik can keep to himself provided his roommate does the same.  
  

***

  
On move-in day, Erik packs most of his life into his hatchback and drives to his new home. He'd always preferred to sublet apartments instead of own them, and the habit has left him with no pieces of furniture, three boxes of books and two suitcases full of clothes.   
  
A little boy on a bicycle watches him as he folds the remainder of his belongings into the great house. When he's on the last box, the boy appears next to him. He looks about eight years old, all blonde hair and scabby knees. There's a manic smile tearing over his features. "My name is Havok," he announces. "Did you just buy the Xavier house? You know people have died here, right?"  
  
It takes a while for Erik to respond. He remembers the stories children tell each other in the dark. The mansions filled with chaos they invented from vacant houses. Erik stopped participating when he lost his parents. "Your mother must be worried about you." He bares his teeth in a smile. "You should leave."  
  
"Scary smiles won't work on monsters," Havok informs him. "I give you a week."  
  
"I'm so happy for your vote of confidence."  
  
"Last one only lasted two hours," Havok says and then kicks off down the hill. Over his shoulder he shouts, "Say hi to Charles for me!"  
  
Erik turns to head back into his new house. The foyer is brightly lit, sun from the late afternoon filtering in through the bay windows. He glances up the stairs, looking toward the master suite where its impressive wooden doors stood firmly locked. He shakes his head and scales the stairs, turning left to go to his own quarters. Even though it's a second bedroom, it's still bigger than any one he's ever known. There's already a good-sized collection of books on the wall, mostly textbooks, biochemistry, genetics, evolution, and a few beaten copies of the classics. Erik's own novels tend toward mystery and science fiction. Still, he traces the spine of a well-loved copy of  _Of Mice and Men_  and wonders who left it behind.  
  

***

  
All houses yawn at night. Erik lies awake listening to the creaks of settling floorboards. New sounds, all of them, but he'll get used to it. He's lived in six different places in the past five years and the first night in every place had been nearly sleepless.   
  
He manages to doze off for an hour or so just past three, but he wakes up to the sound of a muffled scream. He kicks himself awake, bolt upright in bed, hearing footsteps from the direction of the master suite.  
  
A bad dream, he tells himself, trying to exorcise images of bloodshed from his eyes.  
  

***

  
In the morning Erik drags himself to the kitchen to make his coffee as strong as he possibly can. When he makes his way back up the stairs, he notices that there is a fine line of unbroken dust in front of the door to the master suite.  
  
The door has not been opened in a very long time. Hesitantly, Erik raises and fist and raps twice against the wood. "Hello," he says. "It occurs to me that I'm yet to meet my new roommate. It though it best we remedy this."  
  
No answer comes from the opposite side.   
  
"My name is Erik Lehnsherr."  
  
When nothing happens, Erik feels silly. His roommate must be out. He stares at the line of dust on the floor. Perhaps there is a fire escape or something.  
  

***

  
Erik dreams again of his parent's deaths. Of a house much like this one filled with screams. Of a man who snuck in and snuck out like a ghost through in the night. Of a murderer who was never found.   
  
_Help me_.  
  
He's drenched in sweat when he wakes up, shaking like it's still that night. Like he could still walk into his parent's room and find a pair of corpses painted in red.  
  
The shower he takes to settle his nerves is long and scorching hot. When he leaves, his skin is scorched red and he looks up to see words scrawled across his steam coated mirror.   
  
_Charles Xavier_  
  
Erik reaches up with his towel to scrub the name from the glass. He wonders how long it's been since it was last cleaned, residual grease from fingerprints ten years old still marring the surface.   
  
Bizarrely, his mind flickers to Havok.  _Say hi to Charles for me._  
  
"Hello, Charles," Erik says aloud and moves downstairs.  
  
He doesn't sleep for the rest of the night, instead pulling a battered copy of  _Slaughterhouse-Five_  from the shelves, and starting from the middle. He's always felt a kinship with Billy Pilgrim, their lives are both never-ending strings of disasters that can't be fixed.   
  
The next morning, his door rings at precisely nine and Havok stares up at him holding a plate of baked cookies. "My brother says we should welcome new people to the area especially if they're brave enough to take the Xavier house."  
  
Havok thrusts the plate into Erik's hands, ducking his head. His face is smeared with chocolate on the edges where he'd clearly snuck some of this gift for himself. Erik grabs a handful of the cookies from the plate and give them back to Havok. His face lights up. "Thanks, Mister."  
  
"Lehnsherr," Erik says.   
  
"Thanks, Mr. Lehnsherr." Havok talks around a mouthful of cookie, standing on the doorstep but peering up at the door to the master suite. "Have you met Charles yet?"  
  
"The one who lives in the master suite? No." He has to fight to keep from smiling at the mess Havok is making of the cookie. "I don't suppose you would like to come in."  
  
"Scott spent a night here on a dare once and he hurt himself so bad he had to wear an eye patch for a week like a Cyclops."  
  
"I take it that's a no."  
  
Havok scurries off Erik's porch, scattering cookie crumbs in his wake. "I hope you make it four more days," he says. "If you don't, I lose the bet."  
  
Erik shakes his head and closes the door. He looks down at the cookie plate only to fine that it had been lined with an ancient piece of newsprint.   
  
_Double Murder in Westchester._  
  
He reads the article quickly and then goes back a second time to digest it. The story is so familiar, it hurts. Charles Xavier and his teenage sister, Raven, found murdered in their own house. Polices have no suspects.  
  
Erik has read notes like this before, drenched in blood and sorrow. The only difference between this story and the one of his parents is the tiny line that reads,  _survived by their son, Erik Lehnsherr._  
  

***

  
Night comes again and so do the sounds of footsteps. Erik, already on edge from days on little sleep, finds himself standing in front of the door to the master suite. He smudges the line of dust and presses his ear to the wood. He's overcome with the sensation that there is someone standing directly in front of him.  
  
"Charles?" he asks the wind. "Charles Xavier?"  
  
He gets no answer and thinks of the real estate agent, face serious as she says,  _Mr. Lehnsherr, I'm telling you, do not open that door._  
  
Erik's fingers find the doorknob. He expects to find the metal cool in the drafty house, but there's residual heat emanating from it, like he's holding something alive in his hands.  
  
He pushes the door open.  
  

(2)

  
The room is empty.  
  
Erik doesn't know what he expected, but it wasn't the empty room. It's decorated in the same style of the rest of the house, antiques in near pristine condition. Erik steps inside, peering around. The dust isn't quite as prevalent inside, but the curtains are drawn and the lights flicker once before going out completely. Erik opens one of the dresser drawers to find a stack of neatly folded cardigans. He shakes his head and checks the window. There's no fire escape, but Erik's always known that.   
  
One week, Havok had said. One week until what? Until he is ousted from his own house by a roommate who doesn't exist?  
  
A chill passes through him, brushing against his left shoulder and his skin erupts into goosebumps. He whirls around on the spot, but no one is there. A harsh laugh escapes his lips. "Get a grip, Lehnsherr."  
  
He leaves the master suite, shutting the door behind him.  
  

***

  
In the morning, he pads downstairs for breakfast and fails to notice that the door to the master suite is yawning open. He's half comatose as he finishes his coffee and only then manages to bring his surroundings into focus. That's when he realizes the walls are bleeding.  
  
Erik doesn't scream, just stands up very slowly and backs out of the room.  
  
There's wind blowing in the hallway though none of the doors are open. Erik makes his way to the telephone and dials the real estate agency, trying to quell the tremors in his hands. When he gives his name the response is immediate. "You opened the door, didn't you?"  
  
Blinking, Erik says, "Yes."  
  
"Then I should let you know that there is a five-hundred dollar containment fee per incident. Of course, should you wish to move, you will lose your deposit."  
  
"Am I to understand this property is haunted?"  
  
"You were of possible problems with an unforeseen roommate and the history of the house is public knowledge. Would you like someone sent to your house to assist with the problem?"  
  
"No," Erik says. "No, I can deal with this."  
  
The wind in the hallway has picked up. Erik snatches a piece of newspaper from the breeze. It's the paper that Havok delivered to him hidden in a plate of cookies.  _You know people have died here, right?_  
  
Out of the corner of his eyes, he catches sight of a figure watching him. He purposely does not look and it lingers at the edges of his vision: a man about the same age as Erik. He doesn't look like a ghost. He looks like a professor, with a frumpy gray cardigan and tousled brown hair. Erik takes a breath to steady himself and says, "Hello, Charles."  
  
Charles turns the corner and the wind dies down.   
  
Right. Erik has a poltergeist. Or something. He wishes he were surprised.   
  
He gathers his things and heads for the library combing through old newspaper articles to find information. Charles Xavier, twenty-nine year old professor of genetics, stabbed to death in his own house. Body was found with that of his sister Raven. Evidence suggested that he'd died defending the girl.  
  
The picture is familiar. The eyes bright, the hair disheveled, a wry quirk to his lips. No leads. None at all. Erik massages his temples and looks to the ceiling.  
  
When he looks back down, Havok is sitting across from him. "Are you follow me now?"  
  
Havok grins. "You met Charles, didn't you?"  
  
"Don't you have anything else to do for fun?"  
  
"Did he do the trick with the bleeding walls? I taught him that."  
  
"And why in the world would you have to teach him something like that?"  
  
"People keep trying to banish him or shut him up in that room. He decided he'd rather scare them out first."  
  
"That's…" Erik pushes the papers away and turns to look at him. "A surprisingly sad state of affairs."  
  
"When are you leaving?"  
  
"Who says I'm leaving?"  
  
Havok lets out a deep breath. "Charles can't go anywhere else and no one ever wants to live with a ghost. So when are you leaving?"  
  
Erik has to forcibly remind himself not to get frustrated, that Havok is a little boy and his ghost is a  _murder victim_. "It's my house," he says. "I'm not going to give it up."  
  
"If you hurt Charles, I'll never talk to you again," Havok says. "Even if you did give me some cookies."   
  
"Alex!" a teenager calls loudly. He receives a few dirty looks as he marches over to seize Havok by the arm. "Where have you been? Mom told me I had to keep you close."  
  
The teen has dark prescription sunglasses and his demeanor seems ever bit the opposite of his younger counterpart. "I'm sorry if my brother was bothering you."  
  
"Mr. Lehnsherr just moved into the Xavier house!" Havok says, not bothering to keep his voice down.   
  
Several of the other library patrons began to stare. Erik collects his research as discretely as possible, wondering if he was the only person in the town who hadn't heard of the murders.   
  
"If he's trying to scare you, I'm sorry," the teen apologizes. "Alex has an active imagination."  
  
" _Havok_ ," Alex corrects petulantly. "And you know it's true, Scott. You were in the house before."  
  
Erik bares his teeth in what he's been told looks like a predator's smile. "I understand you two have money on how long I will last."  
  
Scott flushes red. "I'm sorry," he says. "I just—I—we have to go, now."  
  
The brothers leave the library side by side, bumping shoulders with one another. A kindly old lady approaches Erik and puts a hand on his shoulder. "I'm glad to see someone like you move in. It's been a long time since that house meant anything but death."  
  
Erik nods, his throat tight and leaves as soon as she lets him go.  
  

***

  
He fumbles with the lock on the door for fifteen minutes but it refuse to turn even though he has the correct key. He thinks he can sense Charles on the other side of the door, watching his frustration mount.   
  
Erik breaks into his own house, courtesy of an unlocked window. When he checks the front door, he finds that it has been unlocked the entire time. Erik deadbolts the door--mostly to keep Havok from entering uninvited—and turns around to find a thick stream of blood dripping down the stairs. Steeling himself, he climbs the stairs and turns into his bathroom, his footprints not even distorting the blood.  
  
_Get out!!_  is written on the mirror in shaving cream. It's almost illegible. Curse of a professor Erik supposes. He doesn't clean it off because he needs a shower right now. It doesn't matter that none of the blood stuck. It's just a need to wash the memories of his own parents, lying slaughtered in their bed, from his mind. "Charles," he says. "I don't know if you're here, but I would appreciate you left the room while I showered."  
  
There's a rustle and then the bathroom door slams shut. Erik sinks against the side of the shower. He has a murder victim haunting his apartment. One who took an eight-year-old's advice about making walls bleed. Which means he is absolutely not going to be unnerved.   
  
Downstairs sounds the opening strands of Beethoven's fifth symphony and Erik fights the urge to groan. "Come on," he shouts downstairs. "Can't you at least try to be original?"  
  
Erik's insane. Plain and simple. He's gone absolutely insane but he's not leaving this house.  
  

***

  
Erik sleeps through the night for the first time since he moves. When he wakes up, he finds that his bed is wobbling slightly, hovering six inches above the ground. It's an odd sensation, but after the initial surprise, not a bad one. "Charles?" he asks.  
  
The ghost doesn't materialize in a midst but rather shuffles in almost awkwardly from Erik's closet. For a moment, they stare at each other. Charles is bit pale but he looks as much like a librarian as a ghost. He waves a hand a little sheepishly and says, "Boo."  
  
Erik looks down at the hovering bed and then back to Charles. "This is by far the coolest thing that I've ever done."  
  
"Groovy." Charles winks at him, a big smile on his face as he leaves the room.  
  
The bed stops levitating. Erik pulls on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt before heading back downstairs. Charles is waiting by the coffee pot, the mixture already boiling. When he sees Erik, he pours a mug and hands it over. It's nearly ice cold when it touches Erik's lips. He takes a sip anyway.  
  
"I'm not going to leave," Charles says. "Can't. I've tried. A foot off the property and I'm in the blasted bedroom again. I can make things very uncomfortable for you."  
  
Somehow Erik hadn't expected the accent, but hearing it slots a sense of this man into his mind. Undoubtedly from money before he was dead. He doesn't look impressive, but everything about Charles seems designed to be underwhelming. "I would prefer you didn't," Erik says. "You're not very good at it."  
  
"You should have seen me before I met the Summers boys. I was absolute rubbish." Charles sinks into the chair at the dining table, looking genuinely distressed. "I spent an entire month moving purses from room to room."  
  
Erik dumps the frigid coffee in the sink in favor of the still boiling pot. "Why?"  
  
"Raven always found it terribly frightening when her things were not as she left them. And I found myself quite bored."  
  
Laughter bubbles up in Erik's chest as he sits across from the ghost. "I must admit I don't find you terribly frightening. Despite the trick with the walls."  
  
Charles deflates.   
  
"I would appreciate it if you stopped making the walls bleed. It brings up some rather unpleasant memories." The new cup of coffee is far too warm after the first frigid one. "My parents were murdered when I was a boy."  
  
"Murdered," Charles says. "Like me. Do you have prior experiences with ghosts?"  
  
"You're my first," Erik says. "I'm not entirely convinced this isn't some elaborate prank."  
  
"It's not a prank," Charles replies. "And this is my house. I won't leave it."  
  
"If you stop making the walls bleed, I see no reason why we shouldn't be able to share. I understand there's no actual mess involved, and I'm not overly fond of the decor but…" Erik trails off as he finds the ghost stifling laughter. "Is something funny?"  
  
"You are without a doubt the strangest man I have ever met," Charles says. "Not many people try talking to me after they realize what I am."  
  
"What do they do?"  
  
"Most of them scream. All of them left. The last one was a bit more savvy. He managed to lock me in the master suite, but he still didn't want to live here. I'm fairly certain the ritual included the sacrifice of two cats. They followed me around for two months before they faded away."  
  
"That may be the most disturbing thing I've ever heard."  
  
"You're talking to a ghost and the most disturbing thing you've ever heard has to do with kittens?"  
  
A full-blown smile has crept its way onto Erik's face, stretching muscles years out of practice. "I'm not clear on how the ghost thing works, but I won't find an exorcist provided you don't turn my new home into a horror film."  
  
"Agreed," Charles says and extends a hand.  
  
Erik raises an eyebrow. "Do ghosts actually shake hands?"  
  
Charles shrugs. "I've never been in the position to try."  
  
Erik extends his hand and Charles steps forward to seize it. It's like being plunged into a vat of ice water, like Charles is leeching every last bit of heat from his body, but at the same time, there is something solid that meets his hands. Erik's never been one to trust his eyes.   
  
But Charles is there, he can feel it. Feel him. He's reached truce with a poltergeist.   
  

***

  
They settle into a routine. Erik goes to work and Charles devours every bit of new literature Erik brings to the house. When Erik gets back, he cooks himself dinner and watches a movie more. They avoid each other, passing through the hallway with scarcely a word.   
  
Havok knocks on the door at the end of the week, looking crestfallen when Erik answers the door. "Mr. Lehnsherr. You didn't leave."  
  
Erik smirks at him. "What does that mean you lost your bet?"  
  
"Five dollars," Havok says miserably, but brightens when he catches sight of someone in the hall. "Charles!"  
  
Havok pushes his way past Erik and into the foyer. Erik shuts the door with a roll of his eyes. "Of course, Havok. Come in."  
  
The boy is chattering at Charles shoulder and Erik watches them curiously. He never would have thought a boy like Havok be excited to see a genetics professor, ghost or not.   
  
He follows them to the study where Charles produces a slightly ratty chess set and lets Havok set up the board. Erik makes it an entire three minutes without comment. "I wouldn't have taken you for a chess player, Alex."  
  
"Havok," he corrects. "And chess has knights. Knights are badass."  
  
"Language," Charles chastises.  
  
"Sorry, Mr. Charles," Havok mumbles, opening with his knight.  
  
"You're welcome to watch the match, Erik," Charles says and with an offer like that, of course Erik is going to stay.  
  
The game progresses quickly, Havok is excellent for his age but he's only eight. Charles plays quick, moving his pieces without real thought and lets the boy chatter. The game ends in Charles's favor, Havok demanding how he was lured into a trap.   
  
"You’re a ghost who teaches chess to children," Erik says.   
  
"Charles doesn't know anything about being a ghost," Havok says. "He doesn't even look transparent! He knows a lot about chess though. He even taught me poker!"  
  
"I could teach you how to play chess too," Charles offers.  
  
Havok vacates his seat and Erik slides in across. The chessboard is worn, chipped around the edges and it might be the only thing besides the books that doesn't look brand new in this house. "I know how to play," Erik says.   
  
He hasn't played regularly in years. It had been his father's favorite game and he was nearly twenty years dead. Erik's last chess partner had been Moira MacTaggart, an old girlfriend with whom he'd had a spectacularly bad break-up. The sight of the pieces lined in front of him, sent a wave of nostalgia sweeping through his bones.  
  
Charles smiles. Havok moves to sit behind Charles, bouncing on his toes. "Kick his ass. He made me lose the bet with Scott."  
  
"It disturbs me that I've had even a small part in encouraging your gambling habits."  
  
"You taught him poker," Erik points out, not at all helpfully.  
  
"In my defense, I was quite terribly bored. And I did owe him for telling me about that trick with the walls."  
  
The match takes two hours. Erik thinks it's the most he's smiled in the past two decades. He'll later mark it in his head as the point where he stopped being reluctant roommates with Charles and started being friends.  
  

(3)

  
From then on, things change. Erik stops avoiding Charles in the halls, and starts seeking him out. It starts with the chessboard, with games that stretch hours into the night and then it seeps into every facet of his life. Charles brews tea or coffee in the morning and leaves it waiting for Erik who brings him the newspaper in exchange.  
  
As a rule, Erik doesn't have friends. It's a trend that started years ago as he skated through various foster homes. He'd made friends with a boy in his first home, Darwin, but they'd been separated within a month and he'd never seen him again. After Darwin, he'd befriended a boy called Sean at the orphanage but he died in a traffic accident at age fourteen.  
  
College brought a pair of moderately serious girlfriends. Emma, who he'd discovered was simultaneously dating three other guys on his hall. After that there was Moira and their breakup was probably still the most spectacular things that campus had ever seen. Pulling away from people is a defense mechanism. Erik's never had a friendship or relationship that lasts.   
  
But Charles can't die because he's dead already and Charles can't leave because he's bound to this house. Erik's not used to being secure in anything, but this feels like something that can last as long as he wants it.  
  
So movie nights alone in front of the television become movie nights with Charles and the single chess game becomes two becomes a marathon. They talk about everything but the past, discuss literature, politics and television sitcoms. They don't acknowledge the fact that Charles is dead or that Erik's been alone for most of his life.   
  
The closeness of the friendship doesn't surprise him so much as the quickness. Charles goes from making the walls bleed and the furniture shake to making him laugh in the span of less than a month.   
  
For the first time in his life, Erik is something resembling happy and if that isn't a warning that something is going to go wrong, Erik doesn't know what one is.   
  
The change in his demeanor makes him more approachable and the end of the work week brings Hank McCoy inviting him out for drinks with the rest of his coworkers. The poor boy still looks half terrified, but the fact that Erik is now approachable is cause for alarm.  
  
Erik declines the offers of drinks saying, "I've got plans with a friend of mine."  
  
Hank blinks like he's surprised Erik has any friends but he recovers enough to say, "We go out every Friday. You're welcome to bring a friend if you like."   
  
Actually, Erik has no concrete plans, but an old western film and a game of chess with Charles. But it's something he looks forward to. When he gets to the door, Charles unlocks it before he can, grinning from ear to ear. "I've the popcorn ready," he says by way of greeting.  
  
"You haven't touched it, have you? Cold popcorn is a terrible thing."  
  
"You could just invite Alex to eat the rest of it," Charles says. "I'd eat it myself, but last time I tried there was a rather unfortunate episode with ectoplasm."  
  
"Last time you tried? You mean you tried it more than once."  
  
"After the first time? Yes. As a scientist, I find it helpful to repeat any experiment." His eyes glaze just a little. "And I suppose I was rather hoping it didn't apply to chocolate."  
  
Erik stutters out a laugh as he pulls the door shut behind him. Charles leads the way towards the television, lights flickering in his wake.   
  
Then it hits Erik for real.   
  
Charles is a dead man. Charles was murdered in this very house. Charles can't eat chocolate or go outside or touch anyone.  
  
A funny feeling settles in his gut. Charles turns to look over his shoulder. He's wearing the same baggy cardigan he always wears. His cheeks look flushed, his blue eyes bright. He looks like he should have his whole life in front of him.   
  
But all he has is this house.  
  
And that's not fair.   
  
Erik settles down on the couch, the opposite side of Charles, the space between them a yawning gap. Erik throws a bit of popcorn at him. It sails through his head, and lands on the couch cushion next to him. Charles shakes himself out of his daze and looks to Erik.  
  
The next kernel of popcorn hits him square between the eyes and bounces. "What on Earth are you doing?" Charles asks.  
  
"Experiments," Erik replies. "As a scientist, you should approve."  
  
Charles throws the popcorn back at him.  
  
When the movie ends, Charles praises the hero's performance, acting out the climactic shootout with gusto. He fingers an imaginary gun at his side and counts, "One, two, three. Draw."  
  
Erik asks, "Do you remember anything about dying?"  
  
Charles stumbles, face crumbling into shock. "Excuse me?"  
  
"It was in this house, wasn't it? The room upstairs. The master suite."  
  
"Yes. Yes it was. I'd just moved rooms, you know. My parents were years dead and I decided I'd rather have the master suite than my old room. I sometimes wonder if things would be different if I walked into my old room." His features are glazed. "It was the room you've been sleeping in actually. But I'd finally got in the habit of heading for the master suite and that night, there was a man. He had a knife. He wasn't trying to steal anything. He was just waiting for me. I shouted for Raven to get out, but she was always one of those people who tried to help when she heard trouble." Bloodstains have blossomed on Charles's shirt, his face rapidly draining of color. "The actual end, I don't remember. I just remember seeing the figure, screaming and then I woke up again. There wasn't a bright light. There wasn't any pain. Just a gap."  
  
Erik's voice is close to breaking. "Would you know his face? The one who killed you?"  
  
"He looked like anyone else," Charles says. "Dark hair. Light skin. He never was caught."  
  
"I'm sorry," Erik says, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. He's sorry it happened, sorry he asked, but he had to know.   
  
The blood on Charles's shirt disappears as he looks to the hand on his shoulder. "It was a long time ago, my friend. Things have a way of turning out for the better."  
  
That Charles can even make that statement about his own murder makes Erik marvel at the man and he keeps his hand on his shoulder until his fingers start to go numb. He goes to sleep wearing two extra pairs of socks and buries himself under a mountain of blankets.  
  

(4)

  
Two weeks after that, in the middle of the rain that breaks a brutal heat wave, there is a knock on their door. It's just past midnight and Erik startles awake, memories of his own parents' murder fresh in his mind. Charles is outside his room, peering down the stairs. They have an agreement that he will never open it for people they don't know, and no one they know would knock this late at night.   
  
There's another round of frantic knocking and Erik grabs a baseball bat from the corner and hoists it to his shoulder before pulling the door open.  
  
Alex Summers stands on the porch, drenched to this skin. His blond hair is darker than normal, plastered to his skin. Wrapping his skinny arms around his torso for warmth, he looks up to Erik with red-rimmed eyes. "Mr. Lehnsherr, can I sleep here tonight?"  
  
Charles answers in the affirmative before Erik can even find his voice. "Of course. Bathroom's upstairs on your right. I think mother may have saved a few of my old things in the attic, so take a shower and I'll find something dry you can wear."  
  
The rain from outside is picking up so Erik closes the door and turns to the boy. "Havok, does your mother know where you are?"  
  
Alex shakes his head, spraying bits of water all over the hardwood floors. "She doesn't care." He moves up the stairs to the bathroom and locks the door behind him.  
  
While the shower runs, Erik turns to Charles. "Can you explain to me what just happened?"  
  
Charles folded his arms over his chest, keeping his voice low enough to disappear into the hum of the shower. "Alex has spent the better part of his summer either outside or here. What does that tell you?"  
  
"That he's an eight year old kind who thinks ghosts are cool even when they happen to also be genetics professors."  
  
Charles waves a hand. "Genetics is a very groovy subject, but you've got to think, what do you know about Alex?"  
  
Erik closes his eyes. He knows Alex is eight years old and calls himself Havok, that he has an older brother called Scott and an odd fascination with this house. He knows that instead of making friends his own age, he haunts this house and plays chess with ghosts. Knows that when he came to the door holding baked goods, it was at the advice of his brother, not his mother. Knows that Alex is loud and attention seeking while his brother shuns it. Knows that Alex is smart but doesn't like to show it.   
  
Knows that he's never once seen Alex standing next to an adult. "Oh," Erik says.  
  
Charles nods. "Alex's mother, from what I understand, is disinterested in her sons. I'm not sure of the entire story but about five years ago, Scott dragged them both in here to hide from something. When I tried to ask why, I'm afraid I gave Scott a bit of a fright. Raven had watched him a few times when he was young and I think he recognized me as a dead man. I told them both they would be safe here, but only Alex took it to heart."  
  
"Why do they need safety?"  
  
The bathroom door squeaks open and Alex emerges wearing a pair of pinstriped pajamas, toweling off the rest of his hair. "Because my dad just came back."  
  

***

  
Alex falls asleep before Erik can extract any more information. He carries the boy to the spare room and tucks him into bed. After the commotion, Erik can't sleep so he winds up in the study playing game after game of chess with Charles as his frustration mounts higher.  
  
"You're angry," Charles says after three hours of complete silence.  
  
"You could have done something," Erik spits. "If the situation was bad, you could have removed him."  
  
"How would I do that if I can't leave this house?" Charles's face is placid, but there's a bitter edge to his voice. "Not many people would accept advice from a ghost."  
  
"Then I'll change it," Erik snaps.   
  
"I hope you do."  
  

***

  
When Alex wakes up the next morning, Erik makes him pancakes. The boy watches him warily, wearing Charles's old pajamas and an expression that is so like the other man that it physically pains Erik. "He doesn't hit me," Alex says. "It's never been like that."  
  
Erik slides a pair of pancakes onto his plate. They land with a wet thud and he pushes the syrup toward the boy.  
  
Alex takes it and douses his pancakes. "Scott says I'm imagining it."  
  
Charles slides into the seat next to Alex and Erik only just catches himself before trying to serve him food as well. "Alex, you wouldn't have come here if nothing was wrong."  
  
"Things change when he comes back," Alex squeezes his eyes shut. "There are places in the house we're not allowed to go. Mom gets… I dunno, sadder and happier at the same time. I saw her staring at the picture of another woman last time and when dad saw her, his face just went cold." He went back to his pancakes. "It's always worst the first night."  
  
"He scares you," Charles says.  
  
"I'm not afraid of anything," Alex corrects, but Erik knows that for a lie. He'd turned up in the middle of a thunderstorm shaking like a leaf.   
  
"You can stay here anytime you like," Erik offers.   
  
Alex looks at Erik for a long moment and then back to Charles. "Thank you," he says finally and digs into his pancakes.  
  

***

  
Summer gives way to a crisp fall and almost every day, Alex trudges his way from the bus stop and to the old house. When Erik gets off work, it's not at all odd to find Alex with his homework spread on the floor, as Charles babbles excitedly about science. When Erik pulls up the textbook, he isn't surprised to find that it's several years too advanced.  
  
"The stuff they teach in class is boring," Alex says, snatching it back.   
  
"You're going to turn him into you," Erik tells Charles.  
  
Except he knows it's not true. Alex is smart, yes, but he's also easily bored and Erik knows enough about children to recognize the ones for whom boredom is destructive. Erik has gleaned some of the boy's tendencies. He's prone to bouts of anger, mouthing off and the occasional fist fight with classmates. The teachers don't like him because he finishes assignments early and begins looking for a distraction. The kids don't like him because his home life is a mess.  
  
Erik likes him. Which is strange, because until he met Charles, Erik had never genuinely liked anyone. Charles usually ships him home before dark, but on the nights when he falls asleep on the couch, they let him stay.

Which is why it's a shock for him to open the door at dusk one evening to find now Alex Summers but his teenage older brother. Scott squares his shoulders and looked up to meet Erik's eyes. "You need to tell Alex to stop coming here."  
  
Erik crosses his arms over his chest. "Something tells me that instructing Havok to do something ensures the opposite happens."   
  
"I'm not joking. It was one thing when Alex came up here to indulge his haunted house fantasy, pretend he's talking to a ghost but it's different when there's actually someone here. He'll care about that."  
  
"Who will care?"  
  
"Alex's dad. My stepdad. Look, I know you think you're helping, and really Alex is as happy as I've ever seen him, but you can't keep letting him come around. It'll be so much worse this time."  
  
"And why is that?" Erik demands. "If there's something wrong, you should tell someone. There are people who can help."  
  
"If you want to help Alex, just leave him _alone_. The sooner the better because it doesn't look like dad plans to leave this time." Scott shifts sideways, uneasy. "Is this place really haunted?"  
  
"Yes," Erik says. "It's also a safe place if you ever need it."  
  
When Scott sets his face in determination, Erik for the first time sees a resemblance between the two boys. "I won't."  
  

***

  
The next day after school, Erik finds Alex frowning a problem in a textbook on geometry. "It's Scott's," he says, flipping the pages. "And it's all about _shapes_."  
  
Erik has a terrible premonition of Havok as an engineer. It ends with buildings burning down. He clears his throat and says, "Scott told me you weren't supposed to come here anymore."  
  
"Scott's a moron," Alex replies, reaching for the bag of pretzels at his side.  
  
"Don't call your brother a moron," Erik says, but he's smiling as he moves into the next room to find Charles. "And don't eat all my pretzels again!"  
  
Charles is in the next room, buried in a book of his own. "You sound like his father," he comments.  
  
Shaking his head, Erik collapses down across from him. "The boy's father appears to be a grade-A bastard. I want nothing to do with the man."  
  
"You would be good at it though," Charles says. "I like to think I would have been good at it, too."  
  
It's only then that Erik realizes the book in front of him is not some great genetics tomb, but rather a photo album. Page after page of a younger Charles standing next to a beautiful blonde, the two of them smiling in the sunlight. "Raven," he says when he notice Erik's gaze. "My sister. Fellow murder victim."  
  
"She's beautiful," Erik says.  
  
"You would have liked her," Charles replies. "She was a bit caustic for some people, but you would have thought she was wonderful."  
  
"Do you know what happened to her? After, I mean?"  
  
"No. When I woke up again, she was gone. I wonder about it sometimes, why she moved on and I didn't. I always used to think it was unfinished business. But I didn't leave anyone behind."  
  
"There was the matter of your murder."  
  
"A fate that my sister shared. So why me and not her? Is it just chance? I died because of chance."  
  
"You died because someone stuck a knife to your spine to immobilize you and spent the better part of an hour slicing off bits of skin until he severed your jugular."  
  
Charles pales. "That is… rather more graphic than I had hoped. I assume I had a closed casket funeral."  
  
"You didn't know?"  
  
"I don't remember much past Raven's scream and don't care to."   
  
"And the man who did this, you don't want revenge?"  
  
"Of course I want revenge," Charles closes the photo album with revenge. "No one in the world should be allowed to take a man's life and keep his freedom. But there's nothing I can do. I'm trapped here for the foreseeable future. Maybe forever. I don't much see the point in obsessing over something I can't change. I'd much rather enjoy having a housemate who acknowledges my existence."  
  
"I could find him for you," Erik offers. "Make sure he gets justice."  
  
Charles narrows his eyes. "Erik, the man is dangerous. Even if you had a way to find him, I would not want you anywhere near him."  
  
Scenes of blood dance in front of Erik's eyes. Everything he has ever imagined doing to the man who killed his parents plays out in graphic detail. If he had the chance to spend one minute in the presences of that man, he would not hesitate to take it. The danger of the situation would be irrelevant. All that would matter at that point was revenge. Justice.   
  
He finds, to his surprise, that the same holds true for the man who killed Charles.  
  

***

  
When a week goes by without Havok ringing their doorbell, Erik assumes the boy has finally made some friends his own age. Charles frets, and the whole house plummets the mid-forties despite the fact that the temperature outside still hovers at a comfortable sixty in the middle of the afternoon. "A fortune in heating bills," Erik says. "Charles, get a hold of yourself before you start making the pipes burst."  
  
"I'm sorry," Charles moans. "I'm still new to this."  
  
"You've been dead for ten years," Erik snaps.  
  
"If you consider the fact that I may have eternity, that's no time at all."  
  
The temperature remains frigid. Erik invests in thermal underwear and stacks a pair of extra blankets onto his bed. At the supermarket, he stares at the collection of alcohol and wonders if it would be possible to murder an unsuspecting bottle of scotch so that his resident ghost could at least have a drink.  
  
And then he feels someone tugging on his sleeve. There's always been a shortage of people willing to touch him, and even now when he's made the first true friend of his life, the feeling of skin on skin jars him. He spins around faster than he intends only to find Alex Summers staring at him. "Mr. Lehnsherr?"  
  
"Havok," he greets. He's called the boy Alex before without reprimand, but it's the nickname that's guaranteed to draw a smile to his face.  
  
Alex isn't smiling now. "I'm sorry I kept bothering you and Mr. Charles. I won't come there again."  
  
"Bother us?" Erik says. He shifts the basket of groceries from one hand to the other. "Where did you get that idea?"  
  
"You don't have to lie Mr. Lehnsherr. I understand."  
  
"I don't."  
  
"Dad says I've been bothering you. If you didn't want me there, you could have just said."  
  
Erik crouches down just enough to place a hand awkwardly on Alex's shoulders. "Havok, you've not been bothering us."  
  
When Alex looks up, there's just a hint of wetness to his eyes. "I'm not?"  
  
Erik shakes his head. "God knows you're far more interesting that most of the adult I've met."  
  
He's surprised when Alex throws his arms around his shoulders and pulls him into a tight hug. He's not sure how to react, not sure what do with his hands so he just stands there and lets Alex take whatever comfort he needs. In his ears, a soft voice whispers, "I wish you were my dad."  
  
Erik is floored. Him. Not Charles.  _Him._  
  
In a single crushing moment, Erik realizes that he wants that too.  
  

***

  
The doorbell rings twice before the insistent knocking brings Erik to the door. Charles vanishes into the master suite, their unspoken rule for visitors. The knocking is far too loud to be Alex. The source of the sound is situated higher, and spiked with a thick burst of anger. Erik hesitates before opening it, tempted to make anyone that impatient wait as long as possible.  
  
But his own annoyance wears out quicker than the visitor, so he tugs the door open and says, "May I ask what possessed you to assault my door?"  
  
The man in front of him is Erik's elder by at least twenty years, he's almost skeletally thin with a dark hair and sharp eyes. He's Erik's size but projects impossibly bigger as he spits. "You. I don't want you seeing my son."  
  
"Your son?" Erik says, frantically scrolling back through people he's met for the faces of those he's grievously offended around the right age. "I'm afraid I don't know who—"  
  
"Alex," he says. "My boy's been coming to your house every night and people have started to notice."  
  
_It took you months to notice,_  Erik wants to say, but instead he keeps his voice level. "Alex has been kind enough to do some chores for me because I'm at work for most of the day. I've paid him in food and books."  
  
"He should be with family. This is grossly inappropriate."  
  
Erik's gut twists at the accusation. "He's a smart boy."  
  
"He's a troublemaker. I'm sure you don't want him here any more than I do."  
  
"Someone should take an interest."   
  
"If anyone is going to do that, it should be me." The man draws himself back and Erik doesn't blame Alex in the slightest for thinking him frightening. This was a man who wielded intimidation like a weapon. "I don't want to hear of my son coming here again." He scowls. "Good day, Mr. Lehnsherr."  
  
Erik swallows around the dryness in his throat. "Mr. Summers..."  
  
"Summers is his mother's name. Mine is Shaw. Sebastian Shaw." He peers back at the house. "It's been a long time since anyone stayed in the Xavier place. People have died here. Bloody if I'm not mistaken."  
  
"I'm not afraid," Erik says.   
  
"You should be," Shaw replies, and stalks away.  
  
Back inside the house, everything not nailed down is hovering a foot in the air. Erik grabs the coat rack to try and force it down, but it won't budge. "Charles?" he calls. "Charles, what are you doing? I'm not sure I want to deal with this much broken glass."  
  
As he scales the steps, blood starts to drip from the wall. Panicking, he turns into the master suite only to find the crumpled body of a girl in the doorway. Erik steps over her, barely glancing to her face to get to Charles who is sitting in the larger pool of blood, knees drawn up to his chest. He looks pale and impossibly young. Erik hovers just over him for a moment, not wanting to touch, because he has a feeling it would be like touching a live wire. "Charles?" he asks again. "Charles, can you tell me what's wrong?"  
  
Charles doesn't answer. Erik decides to hell with it and seizes by the shoulders. His body temperature plummets, but a good deal of the blood vanishes on contact. Charles blinks before he's staring at Erik like he can't believe he's there.  _Erik?_  he says and Erik isn't sure if he's actually speaking or if it's tangled up in his mind.  _No, you can't be here. Not now._  
  
"Tell me what happened."  
  
_The man who just left,_  Charles says, every word like an explosion.  _That's the man who killed me._

 

(5)

  
For a moment there's nothing but rage. Erik's vision whites out and if his fingers weren't so numb he would probably be squeezing Charles's shoulders hard enough to bruise. Because the murderer was here, in Erik's house. Returning to the scene of the crime. "Erik," Charles says. "Let go of me. You've gone white."  
  
Charles doesn't look like a ghost. Two minute ago, coated in his own blood, he looked just like something from Erik's nightmares, but now there's a flush to his cheeks. It's like the colors have been supersaturated. His eyes are  _blue_  when they'd seemed gray just yesterday, his lips a bright red. If Erik weren't so fucking furious, he would be  _fascinated_. The touch isn't even cold anymore.  
  
"Erik!" Charles says again. "Let  _go!_ "  
  
He wrenches his arm back and it slides out of Erik's grip. Erik collapses to the floor, his breath hanging over him in a mist. He feels like he spent an afternoon out in a blizzard. Charles's hands flutter above him, not making contact. "Erik? Erik! Are you all right? You need to—I'm going to go make you some tea. You look dead."  
  
Raising his hands, Erik flexes his fingers in and out of a fist. Ghosts, he reminds himself. His best friend is a ghost and ghosts don't exist on this plane. Which means that trying to touch them has serious consequences.   
  
"Right," Charles says, appearing back at the doorway. "You're going to need to come downstairs for tea. We need to get some color back in you."  
  
"I'm going to kill him," Erik says.   
  
The color seems to be washing out of Charles's face as he stands there. Erik wants it back. Wants a world where it never went away to begin with and if he can't have it, he wants the next best thing.   
  
He wants the man who did this to suffer.  
  
Charles seems to have no response, shifting from one foot to the other, almost nervously. "He's a very dangerous man." There's a long pause and then very carefully, he says the name. "Sebastian Shaw. He killed me and he got away with it. He has a life."  
  
The bottom falls out of Erik's world. " _Alex,_ " he says. "Alex is in a house with that monster." He scrambles to his feet. "The police. I need to get in contact with the police. Get him and his brother out of there."  
  
"Erik, you can't."  
  
"Like hell I can't."  
  
"There's no evidence. The house has been cleaned more times than you can imagine. Any physical evidence left here is long gone."  
  
"There's you."  
  
"I'm dead. I can't leave the house. The only thing that calling the police will do is alert Shaw that you have reason to mistrust him."  
  
"Havok…"  
  
"I highly doubt Havok or his brother is in immediate danger. We need to take a step back. Plan. Find a way to implicate him in my murder before we tell the police anything. Anything less will put Alex at an unnecessary risk. It's a terrible thing to say, but Shaw has the boy as a hostage."  
  
Shaw needs to die. For stealing Charles from the world at the prime of his life. For beating down one of the brightest boys Erik has ever met.   
  
"What can I do?" Erik asks. "I can't sit here."  
  
"You can go and take some of that tea. You've lost all your color. No matter what happens, I can't drag you down with me. I won't. You have so much life in you."  
  
Erik nearly laughs at that. He's had the sneaking premonition ever since he was a boy that he will die young and die violent. His only wish has been for it to happen on his terms. "That must be why you stayed," he says. "Because of Shaw. Because your murderer still walks free."  
  
"I'm much more concerned with you at the moment," Charles says. "I'd bring the tea up here and force feed you, but that would rather defeat the purpose of you drinking something warm."  
  
He lets Charles steer him out the door and to the kitchen. The tea is so hot it scalds the top of his mouth, but it still takes three cups and nearly an hour before sensation returns to his extremities. Charles spends it all worrying at his side.   
  
"I'm not going to sit idly and wait for him to make a mistake," Erik tells him. "He deserves to pay."  
  
"The hell of it is I agree with you. But it's not worth putting anyone in danger and it will never be worth your life."

 

***

  
When Erik finally does sleep, it feels like a betrayal. He feels like he should be working. Should be scouring any reference he can find for a link. For something that connects Sebastian Shaw to Charles or Raven Xavier. But it seemed that Shaw's only ties to this place is Alex Summers, an eight-year-old boy he sired while passing through town.  
  
But Alex's birth works into the time frame. It turns his stomach to think of Shaw coming to the Summers house fresh off a murder. Alex may well have been conceived within hours of Charles's death.   
  
The murders seep into his subconscious and when he dreams, it's of the man's face. The pure look of pleasure as he peels the skin from Erik's hands. He dreams of a blonde girl, her face quirked in a smile and the same girl coughing blood. When he wakes up he has to take inventory of every piece of his body to make sure he's still intact.  
  
It's only in the light of day that he can place the face of the girl as Raven Xavier, Charles's sister. That he realizes these aren't dreams, but cast off memories. He lives in a haunted house, but the monsters are down in the town, sleeping in the same house as a boy Erik wishes were his own.

 

***

  
It takes Havok a week to sneak back into the Xavier house. Erik's not even aware that he's there until he finds him curled up in the bathtub, sleeping soundly. His left eye is a swollen mess of black flesh and Erik wakes him as gently as he can.   
  
"I couldn't go home like this, Mr. Lehnsherr," he says. "I got in a fight with a boy at school and if dad sees it, he'll flip."  
  
Erik folds the toilet cover down and sits next to him. "Did you win at least?"  
  
Alex snorts. "Scott just asked if I got expelled or not."  
  
It seems a prudent question. "Did you?"  
  
"No," he looks to his feet. "It was outside school property. Not even suspended. I didn't win. He was much bigger than me."  
  
"Did you at least make him hurt?" Erik asks.  
  
Alex nods.  
  
"Good. If you have to lose a fight, make sure the winner has to pay so much he'll hesitate before trying again." It dimly occurs to Erik that these are not the lessons an adult is meant to tell a child.  
  
"Did you get in lots of fights when you were a kid, Mr. Lehnsherr?"  
  
Erik grew up an orphan bouncing between foster homes and children's shelters. "More than I care to count."  
  
"Any advice?"  
  
Erik hesitates only a second before giving it. "There is no such thing as a fair fight. Do not fight as a gentleman. Fight dirty, fight mean and fight quickly."  
  
"You shouldn't be teaching him how to fight," Charles says from the doorway. "You don't need to use violence to gain respect. You'll get more of that if you just ignore them. Controlling your temper will put your life in control."  
  
Turning around, Erik wages a war with Charles using no words at all. He knows the argument as surely as if he'd broadcasted it straight to his ears. Charles is a geneticist and Alex is the biological son of a murderer. Erik knows better than to ascribe too much importance to nature. His entire life hinges on the day his parents were murdered. He would have been a different person if that hadn't happened.   
  
Alex is nothing like Shaw. The very thought lights a slow burning fire in Erik's veins. "If you would have fought, if you would have know how to deliver a hit, absorb a blow and strike one for yourself, do you think you might have escaped your fate?"  
  
Behind him, Alex is staring with wide eyes. He's always known Charles was dead, but without the circumstances, it's easy to think of him as a living breathing person.   
  
For a moment, Charles is deathly quiet, the way that only ghosts can be. "As soon as that man picked my house, my fate was sealed." His eyes are large and sad. "I was always going to die here, Erik. Nothing you do will change that."  
  


(6)

  
Shaw is nowhere. Erik combs through two decades worth of newspaper and there's nothing. The man has no more substance than the wind. He doesn't even appear in the birth announcement for Alexander Summers. Summers, he notes, not Shaw.   
  
He goes back far enough back to find a death notice for Christopher Summers, an air force pilot who died just a year after Scott was. Erik studies the man's face, trying to pick out the pieces that draw a line between this man, Scott and Alex, but like it or not, Shaw has a piece of the boy. It's something Erik will never be able to take from him.  
  
There's nothing to tie Shaw to Charles. Nothing he can do to get Alex out of that house.  
  
His dreams are no longer his own. He dreams of Raven like he knows her and wakes up missing her so much it aches. He flips through Charles's pictures and feels the memories flickering just outside his consciousness. He wakes up in panics, sure that he's dead and gone like Charles himself and is shocked when he finds he has a pulse.   
  
At work, the hours stretch long and boring. He feels useless, hates waiting. He wonders if he should attempt to draw up a will because if he confronts Shaw and it goes poorly, he will need one. Then he spends an hour realizing he his only true friend has been dead for a decade and his family far longer. He supposes Alex is a possibility, but if word gets out, he might draw Shaw's attention and endanger the boy.   
  
Alex still comes by the house, but he does so at odd times, early mornings before school and the odd afternoon. Charles is the one to hustle him out the door, talking about the importance of education as Alex radiates boredom from every pore. Erik feels somehow detached from the scene, this family he never knew he wanted.  
  
Charles spends an increasing amount of time staring out the window toward the town. Erik doesn't know if he's watching for something or if he's simply suffering from ten years of cabin fever. He doesn't say a word, but Erik's half afraid the people from the town will see him and come to the conclusion that Erik keeps him captive.  
  
The days get shorter, the bitter frost seeping into Erik's bones as the trees turn red and then brown all around him. He enlists Alex in help with raking, amused when the boy stacks the leaves high into a pile only to have them scatter when he jumps through them.   
  
Charles is careful not to get near enough to touch him again. The last incident is still fresh on both of their minds. Erik can hardly remember anything past the point where he touched Charles but he thinks it was very cold right up until the point where it wasn't.   
  

***

  
"What do you think will happen when your murder is avenged?" Erik asks.  
  
"I think if you attempt it, I will have a permanent roommate. Please let it go."  
  
"I can't. Not while Alex is still in that house."  
  
"He will make a mistake," Charles says. "We'll keep watching until he does."  
  
"He deserves to die."  
  
Charles looks very young in the light of day. The picture of a man nearing his prime. "His death will not undo mine. You seem to think of me as something you can fix, but I'm not. I'm going to be like this forever."  
  
"Unless seeing your murderer's death allows you to move on. Maybe there's a way out for you."  
  
"Raven passed on unaided even though her murderer remained at large. I fear the world does not work in quite so straightforward a manner."  
  
To his horror it makes Erik feel better to know that it might be possible to avenge his friend and still keep him.   
  
Charles is looking at him a little sadly. "I wish you would go out sometimes. Meet someone."  
  
"I already have everyone I need."  
  

***

  
It all goes wrong on a Saturday afternoon when the phone rings and Charles picks it up. He can do a passable imitation of Erik's voice and the act amuses them both. But that isn't what happens. There's a moment of silence and then Charles says, "Slow down, Alex. I'm going to hand the phone to Erik."  
  
Bewildered, Erik grasps the receiver and brings it to his ear. "Havok."  
  
The voice hits him all at once. Words tumbling into each other, pitch raising to an unintelligible mess. "Breathe, Alex. What's happened? What's wrong?"  
  
"I was in dad's room when he was gone. I'm not allowed in there and I found—I found these pictures. I didn't know what else to do, so I took the pictures and I ran."  
  
"Calm down, Havok. Everything's going to be all right."  
  
"There were pictures of people with blood on their faces," Alex says in between hyperventilating. "I don't think I was supposed to find this. I think my dad might hurt people." The boy sounds like he's on the verge of tears. "I don't know what to do."  
  
"Where are you?" Erik demands. "I'll come pick you up. I promise. Everything is going to be fine."  
  
"I'm in the park. By the swings." There's a long pause while he regains his breathing. "Mr. Lehnsherr. There's a picture of Charles in here. Why is there a picture of Charles in here?"  
  
_You know why_ , but Erik can't say that. The boy will draw his own conclusions. Erik won't push him into that.   
  
Erik wonders what is a worse realization, that a parent is dead or that a parent is a killer. He doesn't wish it on anyone.   
  
"I'll be there soon," Erik promises. "Wait for me."  
  

***

  
Alex is not crying when Erik finds him. His eyes are focused, clear and angry. Clenched around a stack of Polaroid pictures, his knuckles are white. The photos threaten to crumple against his fingers. "Havok," Erik says. The sun is out, but the day is bordering on cold. The squealing children scattered through the park have left jackets and sweaters in their wake. Alex hasn't moved so Erik kneels down and places a hand on his shoulder. "Alex, I'm here."  
  
When Alex raises his eyes from the photograph to meet Erik's he can see the change. The look that marks the end of innocence. Erik had seen in the mirror, nearly two decades prior. "My dad killed Mr. Charles," Alex says without inflection. "He beat him so bad you can hardly see his face. And then he took a picture."  
  
As gently as he can, Erik pries the stack of photographs from Alex's fingers and slides them into his pocket. Out of sight, out of mind. He wishes he believed that works. "It's all right, Alex."  
  
"How can it be all right?" Alex snaps. "He's my dad and I hate him and I wish I could kill him, too."  
  
"Don't say that. You're nothing like him." Erik's appalled at the very notion. "Alex, look at me. He's lost the right to call you his son. You're better than him. Understand?"  
  
Mute, Alex nods and launchs himself into Erik's shoulder. Erik rubs a smooth circle into his back as Alex sobs into his jacket. "I'm going to take you back to the house. Charles will look after you while I get these photographs to the police."  
  
"I'm scared, Mr. Lehnsherr."  
  
Prying the boy off his shoulder, Erik isn't ashamed to admit, "So am I."  


***

  
At the house, Charles greets them in a whirl of frantic energy. The entire floor downstairs smells vaguely of tea and burning sugar. Despite the situation, Erik is amused when Charles hustles Alex into the kitchen for tea and biscuits. As the boy delves into a plate of cookies, Erik pulls Charles aside and shows him the first photograph.  
  
"Oh, I'd rather hoped it was something more… subtle." Charles winces, unconsciously shifting toward the photograph's picture of him. Blood blossoms out of his hairline, a tooth cracks in his mouth and bruises start to form like a bizarre time-lapse image.   
  
Erik whacks him soundly in the back of his head, the contact too brief for any consequences except to break Charles from his trance. "Don't do that! Do you think Alex needs any more reminders of what his father has done?"  
  
"Right." Charles straightens himself up and adjusts his cardigan. "Of course. I'll be sure to maintain better control of myself."  
  
"Do that. I'm going to take these to the police. It seems to be more than enough evidence for someone to make a move."  
  
Charles is nodding right up until the moment that his eyes go wide. "Erik,  _Scott_. Alex's brother. The photographs are gone and Shaw will assume that one of the boys has them."  
  
Erik tears into the next room, where Alex sits frowning at his tea. "Your brother," he demands. Where is he today?"  
  
"With Jean, his girlfriend. He said he'd be back for dinner."  
  
The clock on the mantel reads half past six. The streetlights have illuminated the darkening city with their soft yellow glow. "All right, Havok. I'll collect your brother and then we'll all go to the police station. I'll be back soon. Promise."  
  
"Can I stay here?"  
  
"Havok," Erik says. "You can stay here as long as you like. Hell, you and your older brother can live here. You don't ever have to go back."  
  
Alex nods and manages a weak smile. Erik squeezes his shoulder and turns to Charles. "Do you think you can make the boy some hot chocolate if you're going to insist on hot drinks?"  
  
The tea sits on the table untouched and Alex laughs. It's a horrible broken sound but Erik still counts it as progress. Charles grabs the warm mug and it immediately stops steaming. "I always forget that tea is an acquired taste for you Americans. In England, they start you drinking tea at birth. Raven always used to tease me for it…"  
  
Erik leaves the room to the sounds of Charles extolling the virtues of tea over all other hot beverages. Alex is watching him with the ghost of a smile on his face and for just a second, Erik lets himself believe that everything is going to be fine.  
  

(7)

  
He won't ring the doorbell of the Summers household. He can't take the chance that it would be Sebastian Shaw that answered. He can't hope to fight this man on his own turf. He has no weapons, no guns, nothing but the stack of photographs stolen and a sense of justice. But justice is a poor armor and the photographs inferior to a police escort.   
  
He sinks down in the driver's seat to keep from being seen, thankful that his car is unmemorable .   
  
Distracted, he pulls out the photos. The first one on the stack is Charles, face pale behind a curtain of blood. His mouth is contorted in pain. His eyes are open and very blue. Erik can't look at it for longer than a second without feeling physically ill so he shuffles it to the back of the stack and is faced with Raven Xavier.

Where her brother had been destroyed, Raven looks almost serene in death, blonde hair framing her face like a halo. She has the faintest look of surprise on her face but no visible injuries. In Erik's dreams, she's stabbed just once in the sternum as she responds to Charles's screams.  
  
And that's the pattern. A pair of bodies. One in agony, mutilated beyond recognition and then a second, a perfect, beautiful corpse. Erik flips through the photographs, barely taking in the sea of faces. How many years has Shaw been doing this? Ten? Twenty? Erik thinks of his parents, dead in their bed, a heinous lovers tableau and he freezes.   
  
Hands shaking, he flips back two photographs.   
  
There it is. His mother's face, serene in death, the mutilated corpse of her husband just out of frame. Erik's stomach rolls, he feels his lunch building back up in his throat. His fingers tighten to fists   
  
Then a soft thump hit the window of his car and Erik starts back into reality to roll down his window.  
  
Sebastian Shaw stands next to him, the car door a feeble barrier. "I wonder," he says. "What would possess a man to sit here in the dark?"  
  
Erik's hands are shaking. He puts them on the steering wheel trying to calm himself, the photographs a dead weight in his lap.  
  
"What would possess a man to try to turn my own son against me? Tell me,  _Erik Lehnsherr_. Exactly what did you think would come of this venture? Did you think you would be a hero? Ride into battle and slay the monsters? How very foolish you are."  
  
"I've called the police," Erik lies through clenched teeth. "They're already on their way."  
  
Shaw shakes his head. "Now see, I don't believe you. Because if you'd gone to the police you wouldn't still have these." Cool as can be, Shaw reaches through the open window and plucks the stack of Polaroids from Erik's lap. "Thanks for that by the way. Mementos, you see. Even I get sentimental."

"I'm going to kill you, you bastard."  
  
"There's the fight I was expecting from you, Erik." Shaw's skeletal face splits into a grin. "But I'm afraid that would only get you into deeper trouble."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I've actually had a talk with the police myself. About how my wife called me from work, panicked about the man sitting outside her house. How it's the same man who seems to have taken an interest in my eight-year-old  _son_."  
  
Every bone in his body screaming to attack, but Erik forces himself to look away.  
  
"The way I see it, you have two choices. You can stay here." There's a smirk in Shaw's voice. "Wait for the fireworks. Or you can go back home." Shaw shrugs. "Who knows, you might still be in time to save them."  
  
"Save them?" Erik echoes. Police sirens sound in the distance.   
  
"It was good to see Charles again," Shaw says, straightening up to walk away. "I do love revisiting the classics."  
  

***

  
For a long moment, all Erik can hear is his heart drumming in his ears. Shaw disappears into the Summers house and his every instinct screams at him to follow, to grab the nearest sharp object and ram it into the man's jugular.   
  
But he'd threatened Charles, his home. Alex is there and Erik had promised him safety, promised him so many things.   
  
He stalls the car twice in his haste to get off of that street. It lurches into gear on the third try and he races through the town at double the speed limit. The sound of sirens get louder as he gets closer to home and thick plumes of smoke stain the already dark sky an inky black.  
  
The house is on fire.  
  
His house. Charles's house. The only place he has ever really felt at home. He parks the car just outside the row of fire engines and sprints for the front door.   
  
A man in a yellow suit stops him. "You can't go in there. It's not safe."  
  
_To hell with safe_  Erik wants to scream,  _Charles is in there, Alex is in there._  "I live here," Erik chokes out. "You have to let me through."  
  
"I can't do that sir. "  
  
"But there's someone inside! Alex Summers. He's—" Erik flounders for a moment trying to decide exactly how to describe his relationship with the boy. "Someone from the town who does the odd chore for me. He's only eight years old. Please. He was in the kitchen when I last heard from him."  
  
The firefighter's eyes widen and he turns away hand on his radio. "Any word on survivors? Owner says there is a possible minor inside. Eight years old. Kitchen area."  
  
Erik's legs give out from under him. The noise from the sirens and the crackle of the flames fade out. It's Charles's house. He died here and now he was tied. He could make the walls bleed and the lights flicker but he could never leave.  
  
Even if the firefighters pull Alex from the flames, Charles can never leave.  
  
And what's left of a ghost that has no place to haunt? The minutes stretch. Seconds distort until the feel like days as Erik watches the flames dance through the windows.   
  
Everyone he cares about is inside.  
  
Finally, a man appears with a body slung over his shoulder. A stretcher is waiting with a paramedic who affixes an oxygen mask. "Havok," Erik says, scrambling to his feet.  
  
He's intercepted by a police officer before he can make it to the ambulance. "Mr. Lehnsherr, I have to know if there could be anyone else in that house."  
  
_Charles_ , Erik thinks. "No," he says, "there's nobody else. Can you at least tell me if Alex is all right?"  
  
"The boy? I'm not qualified to say. We received a very serious allegation just an hour ago from a Mr. Sebastian Shaw. I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."  
  
"For what? Someone set fire to my house!"  
  
"Interesting that you immediately leap to arson, Mr. Lehnsherr."  
  
"This doesn't look like a kitchen fire to me," Erik says.   
  
"All the same, I've been asked to take you in."  
  
Erik has no other choice.  
  

(8)

  
They leave him in the holding cell for an hour and twenty one minutes. Erik marks every second of it with the ticking of the clock mounted on the wall opposite him. There is some sort of commotion coming from outside. He hears a lot of people shouting and then a detective, a broad shouldered dark haired man with frankly ridiculous sideburns pushes the door open and says without preamble: "There was a double murder at the Summers house. You're our prime suspect based on a phone call made to the police about a man loitering outside their house." The man raises his dark eyes and gives him the quick once over before tossing the file onto the table and sliding into the seat across from Erik. "You didn't do it."  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"The murders. No way in hell I get that kind of look from a cold-blooded killer. The incompetents in the station are working on a theory where you set your own house on fire to destroy evidence. It's bullshit."  
  
"Alex Summers?" Erik asks hoarsely. "He wasn't—"  
  
"Kid they pulled out of your house? He's unconscious. Smoke inhalation, broken wrist. They found him in some weird pocket of cold air. Lucky except for the part where his mother and brother are dead. I'm guessing the firebug who torched your house was the same one who paid a visit to the Summers. And I'm guessing you know who it is."  
  
"Sebastian Shaw," Erik says. "It's not the first time he's done it either. There were photographs."  
  
The detective raises a hand. "Is there anyone who can confirm this? Maybe give you an alibi?"  
  
"Hav—Alex. Alex Summers can confirm."  
  
Standing up, the detective tucks the case file back under his arm. "Right. We can get that confirmation when the kid wakes up. And Lehnsherr, next time you have evidence that could possibly be relevant in a homicide, come to the police first."  
  

***

  
When Erik is released two hours later, he demands to know where Alex's hospital room is. The detective stops him. "The kid's safe, but he's a target and you're still a person of interest."  
  
"I promised him I'd keep him safe."  
  
"There are people with guns there who are paid to do that. Get some sleep. Don't leave town."  
  

***

  
He goes back to his house. He has no other place to go. It's mostly ashes, cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. The cops have left the scene so he sneaks under the barrier and through the gaping hole that used to be his front door. The walls, for the most part, are still intact but pieces of the second floor have crashed down to the lower one. Erik can pick out charred remnants of books, picture frames with shattered glass and the white knight to Charles's chessboard. Erik picks the chess piece up and slides it into his pocket.   
  
It's still warm.  
  
He closes his eyes.

"Charles," he says, "Charles, are you still here?"  
  
He doesn't care about the house. He doesn't care about the damage. He just cares about the answer that never comes.  
  
Charles is gone.  
  
When he feels like he can't keep standing any longer, Erik gives up and checks into a motel.  
  
The news of the Summers murders is playing on every channel and Erik's chest tightens with guilt. Could he have stopped this? If he'd gone to the police, if he'd been brave enough to ring the doorbell.   
  
He closes his eyes and can almost hear Charles's voice.  _My friend, none of this is your fault._  Finally the news report playing on a nonstop loop on the television report inform the world that the time of death was about between three and four in the afternoon.  
  
Alex called him at quarter to four. Alex had escaped his family's fate by minutes. If he'd stayed instead of run… Erik doesn't want to think of the consequences.  
  
As the sun breeches the horizon, he falls into a fitful sleep.  
  
He dreams of Charles screaming as the flames consume him. He tosses, fighting the invisible specter in his bed sheets until a sickening sweet scent settles over him and then it's hard to breathe.   
  
When he wakes up, he's tied to a chair.   
  

(9)

  
The windows are drawn but the light seeping through the cracks suggest it's late afternoon. His head feels twice its normal size. He groans wondering if this is just some horrible extension of his dream.  
  
Sebastian Shaw is sitting on a chair across from him, grinning. There's a knife dangling loosely from his fingertips. The rush of terror he feels is distant somehow, like it's not quite his own.  _Charles!_  He tries to scream, but he can't fold the name into sound.  _Charles!_  
  
"Erik," Shaw says pleasantly. "I was starting to think I'd administered far too much. It would be a shame if you were unconscious for all the fun."  
  
As subtly as he can manage, Erik tests the bounds. They're pulled snug against his wrists. He can hardly feel his fingers.   
  
"And this will be fun, despite the fact that you caused a considerable delay in my plans."  
  
"Plans?" Erik feels like he's talking through a mouthful of cotton. "You murdered two people in cold blood. You burned down my house."  
  
"You haven't realized it yet, have you, boy? You're my exit strategy. Traumatic past. 'Delusions' of a roommate. You were always going to end up here, Erik. I could have guessed it from the moment my knife first touched your mother's skin."  
  
Erik attempts to lunge for him, but his sluggish limbs are slow to respond and he's bound far too tightly for effective action.   
  
Shaw traces the tip of the knife against the skin of Erik's left arm, leaving a thin trail of blood in its wake. "It's almost a shame to kill you. You practically burn with rage."  
  
"They'll find you," Erik says. "The police, they're not incompetent."  
  
Pulling out the stack of photographs, Shawn shows him face after face, letting them fall to the floor. "When you don't show up for a second round of testifying at the police station, they will trace your credit card. When they find you have rented a hotel room, they will find these."  
  
"Alongside my corpse, I suppose?"  
  
"You'll disappear," Shaw says. "The photographs a perverse message to investigators who were simply too slow."  
  
"And what becomes of you?"  
  
"Me? I go and collect my son from the hospital and we find a new town."  
  
"I won't let you hurt him."  
  
Shaw brings the knife down on the nightstand, sticking the blade upright in the wood. "Why would I hurt my own flesh and blood?"  
  
"You killed his mother," Erik says. "Just like you killed mine."  
  
"His mother was a whore. Two sons by different fathers. She called my son Summers when he has always been a Shaw. She robbed him of his rightful heritage. Turned my boy against me."  
  
"He's not yours," Erik snaps, thinking of Alex's frail body carted from the flames and into an ambulance. "You lost that right a long time ago. He's nothing like you."  
  
"Blood is blood," Shaw says and plunges the blade into Erik's leg.  
  
Erik howls and wonders if anyone hears him. It's a public building, thin walls, but the sheer number of vacant parking spaces tells him it's nowhere near full. There's a dim part of him that doesn't want Shaw to have the satisfactions of his screams, but another that wants to wake the entire town.  
  
"I always wondered what happened to the ones I left behind," Shaw says. He throws a right hook that sends Erik's face slamming sideways. "If it would turn them into weak excuses for men. Or if it would make them hard. Make them mean. Make them strong." Shaw pulls up Erik's chin so he can look him in the eyes. "But you're not strong, are you? I should have expected it after the way your parents died. You're nothing but another failed experiment."  
  
Erik spits into his face.   
  
Straightening, Shaw wipes it off on his sleeve.   
  
"You're a monster," Erik says. "I lived with a ghost for months and you're the monster. But the funny thing about monsters is that only little boys are afraid of them." Erik keeps his voice steady despite the throbbing pain in leg. "And little boys grow up. Yesterday, your son called me scared out of his mind because of what you do. Today, he's telling the police everything he saw. He'll make damn well sure he never has to see you again."  
  
Shaw's face hardens. "I was going to make this quick, but for that, I think I'll kill you slowly."  
  
Erik feels a cool calm sweeping over him. He's been imagining this moment since the day he found his parents. In a way it's a relief. If he's lucky, he'll get to see his mom again.  
  
If he's really lucky, he'll see Charles.  
  
The cold stifling him intensifies. Shaw's talking but Erik's can't hear him, doesn't want to. This is the man who killed his parents. Who killed Alex's family. Who killed Charles. Nothing he says is worth Erik's time.   
  
Shaw raises his knife. Erik feels something give, and then his hands are free.   
  
The rope falls uselessly behind him. Erik blinks because that's impossible. But he's not going to let an opportunity pass him by. As the knife arches down, Erik wrenches his body sideways, not a lot but enough to sent the blow glancing off to his shoulder.   
  
Through the years, Erik has been in more fights than he cared to admit. The skinny orphaned boy with dead parents, he'd spent most of his adolescence dragging his bleeding body in and out of foster homes.   
  
Somewhere along the way, he'd decided that the adults were wrong. Abstaining from violence didn't always make the violence go away. So he'd started fighting back.  
  
_Fight dirty, fight mean and fight quickly,_  he'd told Alex weeks ago.  _If you have to lose a fight, make sure the winner has to pay so much he'll hesitate before trying again._  
  
Erik has one shot at this. The follow through brings his Shaw's head even with Erik's chest. Erik brings an elbow into the back of Shaw's neck and wrenches the knife from his grip.   
  
Shaw pushes himself slowly to his feet. Erik surges up with him, burying the knife three inches deep into his jugular. His eyes go wide as Shaw gurgles blood.   
  
Shaw dies like a wounded animal, scratching angry red lines in to Erik's skin, kicking, trying to scream. Erik holds his ground, holds the knife and watches with something approaching satisfaction.  _This is for my parents,_  he tells himself.  _For Charles, Alex and all of the other faces from the photographs._  
  
When Shaw dies, Erik doesn't feel the same level of satisfaction he would have expected. Instead, he just feels cold. His legs cut out as the adrenaline leaves him and when he looks down, he realize not all the blood on him belongs to Shaw. The rough landing against the floor jars his wound and he sees white spots on the edges of his vision. Then somehow, there's a phone in his hand, already ringing.   
  
"9-11, what is your emergency?"  
  
Erik rambles off the address and room number before he fades complete.   
  

***

  
He doesn't remember a lot from the next few days. But he does remember detective sideburns looking down at him as he's loaded into an ambulance. _You stupid, lucky jackass._  
  

***

  
The stab wound nicked his femoral artery and Erik takes three units of blood before he gets stabilized. The ligature marks on his wrists and ankles as well as the marks from Shaw's fingernails all leave scars standing out white against his skin. He wears them like badges of honor.   
  
No one can figure out how he got untied. Erik can't tell them either.  
  

***

  
Three days after the incident, the day he is discharged, Alex Summers sneaks into his room and they spend the afternoon in silence, watching cartoons. There's talk about sending him to a foster homes and therapy. Alex refuses to comment, refuses to ask his help. Erik had always promised the house would be a safe place, but Charles's house doesn't exist anymore and it physically pains Erik to think of procuring a new one.   
  
But he'll fight tooth and nail for Alex.  
  

***

  
At night, he still dreams about Charles. They're quiet dreams, chess matches, whispered conversations and tea that goes from scalding hot to cold at the touch. When he wakes up, he feels empty, but he's glad Charles has moved on.  


**Epilogue**  
(one year later)

  
It's an anniversary Erik hadn't planned to mark, but they're both well aware of its approach. Alex is quiet for the entire week proceeding, burying his head in a mathematics book far too advanced for his age as Erik prepares for a possible breakdown and waits for the papers.   
  
As luck dictates, the papers arrives on the anniversary of the fire. Erik collects them just minutes before Alex drags himself in from school. The boy has his head down, trying to shift past as he entered the room. Erik knows this routine well enough. "Another fight?"  
  
Alex looks up, his right eye beginning to swell shut. It's not something he can deny. "They said I was a freak with no family."  
  
Erik bends down to wrap the boy in a hug. "They're lying," he says and for the first time, he can actually pull out the paper to prove it. Certificate of adoption for Alex Summers. He presses it into the boy's hands. "I know it doesn't change what happened, but I hope it helps."  
  
Alex reads the paper twice, his hands shaking. "I always used to dream about this," he says. "Me and Scott living with you forever." Alex doesn’t say his brother's name often but makes Erik flinch every time it touches his lips. Alex looks back to the table. "I wish Mr. Charles was here too."  
  
That's something Erik doesn't let himself think about very often. When he'd moved the two of out of state to avoid the worst of the memories, he'd found himself with a particular interest in houses people thought were haunted. The one he'd settled on had a half dozen ghost sightings over the past decade, but he's never seen anything for himself and is beginning to suspect it the rumors simply aren't true. He and Alex keep a chess set in their living room, but it's gone untouched. The spare bedroom has three different books on genetics Erik picked up at a used bookstore.   
  
He still expects to see Charles around every corner.   
  
He still suspects he had help getting out of Shaw's ropes.   
  
Erik takes a deep breath. "If Charles were here, he'd tell you not go get in fights over things that are so clearly untrue. But since he's not, I guess I have to."   
  
"You always told me that if I had to fight, fight to win."  
  
"I'm officially a parent now, so I guess I better start preaching nonviolence before my kid gets himself suspended again."  
  
Alex grins over at him. It's a welcome site, Erik ruffles his hair and they spend the afternoon burning an attempt at dinner and by unspoken agreement, play their first chess game in a year.   
  

***

  
When he wakes up next morning, it's to the smell of freshly brewed tea. He thinks Alex is having a fit of nostalgia, right up until he nudges the boy's door open and finds him sound asleep. Moving downstairs, he bypasses the gun he keeps hidden on the top shelf of his closet, something like hope blooming in his chest.  
  
Charles is standing in the kitchen, staring at the tea kettle in intense concentration.   
  
Erik has to blink several times before he's sure it's real. "Charles?"  
  
"Berry infusion?" Charles says. "Do you not keep decent tea around anymore? What happened to Earl Grey?"   
  
"You're here," Erik says. "It's been a year. I thought you couldn't stay after the fire."  
  
Charles turns to him, looking thoughtful. "I thought so too. For a minute, I though the only thing I would be able to do was keep Alex away from the flames. But when the house was falling apart, I realized I'd been haunting you and Alex instead of the house for months."   
  
"Haunting me?" Erik is grinning so hard it hurts, the muscles on his face unused to the motion. "That's a rather terrifying prospect."  
  
"I did manage to save your life. I'm not terribly fond of the term guardian angel, but I suppose the shoe might fit."  
  
"Not if you can still make the walls bleed."  
  
"I didn't think you approved of that trick."  
  
"Funny what you begin to miss when it's gone," Erik swallows. "What took you so long? It's been a year since Shaw."  
  
The tea kettle whistles, Erik moves forward to remove it as Charles takes a step back, the old routine still well rehearsed.   
  
"There's power in symbols, Erik." Charles takes a seat at the kitchen table. "There's a reason Shaw kept photos."  
  
And there is a reason Erik salvaged the white knight from the chess set in the ruins of the old house. The single miss-matched piece that sat on the board he and Alex finally started using just the night before.   
  
Before he can say another word, Alex stumbles into the kitchen, eyes still fogged with sleep. He pours himself a cup of tea, and the sits down next to Erik. "Morning, Erik," he mumbles, "Charles."  
  
He puts the cup down and does a double take. "Charles!"  
  
It's the first time in a year, Alex has looked his age. Pure undulated joy spanning his features. He launches himself into Erik's arm for a hug and both of them know it's a proxy for hugging Charles.   
  
"How long are you going to be here?" Alex asks. "Are you going to stay?"  
  
"Of course," Charles says. "For as long as you two will have me."  
  
"He's not going anywhere," Erik promises.

**Author's Note:**

> AND THEY ALL LIVE HAPPILY EVERY AFTER. EVEN CHARLES WHO IS TECHNICALLY STILL DEAD.


End file.
